


Boots

by anti_ela



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, King Alistair, Warden Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:11:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4664427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anti_ela/pseuds/anti_ela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And don’t worry about the boots. Kings don’t need to dress themselves. That’s what advisors are for, isn’t it? <br/>—————<br/>First, he asked her if his boots seemed “Orlesian-y, or at least, not dog-man-king-Fereldan-y.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boots

_And don’t worry about the boots. Kings don’t need to dress themselves. That’s what advisors are for, isn’t it?_

Leliana had never been more annoyed in her life.

First, he asked her if his boots seemed “Orlesian-y, or at least, not dog-man-king-Fereldan-y.” They weren’t. They were terrible. And she was busy! And parts of them were worn from actual dog teeth, couldn’t he see that? (”Oh! Haha, yes, well, puppies, you know.” No, Alistair, she  _does not_  know, she is  _busy_.)

Second, while she was speaking with a contact she had been courting for months—months!—he cut in with, “Excuse me—barbarian king, you know, can’t do a thing without my counsel—Leliana, all this food is…  _fancy_. Do you think they have any normal food? For the servants, maybe? Could I have some?” Which was absurd, but how do you tell a king so (in public)?

Third, he actually leaned against the balustrade and said he missed the Blight. The Blight! The god-cursed Blight! She snapped. “Which part? The running? The screaming? The blood stains on everything, the stench of death you couldn’t scrub out of your skin?”

He took a half-step back. “No, I… of course not. It was a miserable time, wasn’t it? But I guess I didn’t notice. Funny, that.”

She exhaled, extended her hand, and clasped his. “Oh, Alistair.”

“I know that… that you loved her, too, and at the time I was. Awful. Truly awful. But now, now, I think you must be the only person in all the world who understands me. Who knows.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “I think so.”

“It’s strange,” he said, looking out over the Orlesian crowd in all their finery, “but I feel betrayed that the world could need saving again.”

She shook her head slightly, though he was not looking. “I don’t think that’s strange at all.”

They stood in silence for a time, hand in hand. Her mind automatically sorted through the glances, the whispers, the laughter, but she discarded it all. Anora would not be harmed by any rumor of an ex-templar fraternizing with an ex-bard, nor the Inquisition impugned. Who cannot say strange friends are made at the end of the world (even if the world, stubborn thing, does not end)?

“How do you do it? How do you speak to this Inquisitor, how do you care what should become of them? How do you stay faithful, Leliana? There are even rumors that you might become Divine. How do you have anything left for the world to take, after all we went through, all we did?”

She laughed quietly. “I tried being unimportant and simple, once, when the world wrecked itself around me. And then I met her. I do not think any of us could go back to who we were before, not ever.”

“No,” he said. “I suppose not.”

“It is not so hard, my friend. They feed me fine foods, and such boots! Without a drop of blood on any. Why, some are even suede.”

“What, suede? Do you suppose they’d take me on?”

“No, you are too embarrassing. You used the wrong utensil all evening.”


End file.
